


Speed Dating for Dummies

by FannyT



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-19
Updated: 2012-05-19
Packaged: 2017-11-05 15:38:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FannyT/pseuds/FannyT
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Speed dating? You mean you don't know what—no, sorry, of course you don't."</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Against his better judgement, John explains the concept of speed dating to Sherlock. </p><p>He very soon regrets it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Speed Dating for Dummies

"No," John says. Sherlock just stares at him, perplexed. 

"What do you mean, _no_?"

"No, I'm not going to stay in and watch crap telly with you tonight," John says, trying to wrestle his tie into submission. "I'm going on a date."

Sherlock continues staring, but now in the slightly disconcerting way that makes John feel like a sample on a tray. "No," he says finally, "you're never usually this blandly well-dressed for a date. That suggests you don't know the person, but the only logical conclusion is a blind date, and you would have talked about a blind date. There's something about this that makes you embarrassed."

John sighs. Sometimes Sherlock is insufferable. It's like living with a fortune teller—but one who doesn't pull the punches. "Fine. Greg and I are going speed dating. We talked about it last week, and we thought, you never know until you try it, right?"

It isn't often Sherlock actually looks surprised, but he does so now. "You're going on a date with Lestrade?"

"What?" John turns and frowns at him. "No! We're going there together, we're not—" And then the utter confusion on Sherlock face registers. "Speed dating? You mean you don't know what—no, sorry, of course you don't."

Not important enough to go on the hard drive, probably. (Unlike the telly times of the latest crappy show Sherlock has become overly invested in, John notes—a hypocrisy he's been nice enough not to point out.)

"Obviously this is a concept I'm not familiar with," Sherlock says, more haughtily than a man acknowledging his disturbing lack of knowledge about the century he's living in has any right to. "Explain." 

Against all his better judgement, John does. 

The change in Sherlock's expression is quite alarming. 

"But that is excellent, John!" he says, standing up from the sofa in one sudden, startling moment. "What a way to gather new data about human behaviour! Let us go at once."

"You can't," John protests. "You have to register for these nights, they're supposed to match you up so that there's an even number—"

Sherlock looks put out for a moment, then shrugs. "Fine, then cancel today and we'll go another night."

John gapes at him. "No," he says, "I'm not going to do that. I've registered and paid a deposit and planned this with Greg. I'm _going_ tonight."

Sherlock glares at him, opens his mouth, closes his mouth, and stalks out of the room. John stares after him for a moment and then returns to his (uneven) Double Windsor knot. Like arguing with a five-year-old, Jesus. 

He's almost ready to go when Sherlock re-emerges, dressed sharply in a black shirt and suit. 

"You persist in making everything difficult, John," he says, but he doesn't look sulky any longer. "Shall we go, then?"

John opens his mouth once or twice, trying to come up with something to say, and finally settles on the most obvious. "Please say you didn't call your brother and get him to interrupt a—a national security meeting or something to _get you into a speed dating meet_?"

"Of course not," Sherlock scoffs, wrapping his scarf around his throat. And then, as he's holding up the door for them to leave, adds, "I texted his PA. She's far less annoying, although her lack of punctuation in text messages is bordering on appalling. John, come on, I've been informed that it's rude to be late to these things."

* * *

"Why would you do this?" Greg asks John. 

"I tried to lose him on the way here," John says, which is only partway a joke. Sherlock is looking around himself with great interest. 

"Why do you think that woman is here?" he asks John, indicating (not very subtly) a woman standing close to the bar in conversation with a friend. "She already has a girlfriend, what could she possibly hope to achieve here? I've been given to understand this is a heterosexual arrangement."

"Keep your voice down, for heaven's sake," John hisses, looking away. "Jesus! I don't know, maybe she's just here to support a friend. Maybe she and her—her girlfriend have an open relationship. Maybe she's here with a mercenary and somewhat creepy motive like the study of human behaviour."

The barb passes right past Sherlock. 

"And that man," he continues, "clearly has no interest in a stable relationship. This seems like a lot of trouble to go through in order to achieve the kind of casual encounter he's hoping for."

"Oh dear God," Greg says, burying himself in his beer. John wishes sincerely he hadn't taken those painkillers for his shoulder tonight, so that he could do the same. 

"All right, everyone!" The organiser for the event is trying to gather their attention now. "We're almost about to start, so if you could all go to the places you've been indicated. When the signal comes to change places, the men will move one step to the right. If you have any questions, please ask them now."

Sherlock starts to raise his hand. John grabs it and forces it back down.

"I was only going to ask why he isn't disqualified," Sherlock says sulkily, nodding towards another man. 

"Not how this works," John says. "Go to your table. Please try not to mortally offend someone."

Sherlock shrugs, then glances at his designated table. His face lights up. "Oh, good, I get to start with the adulteress," he says happily and sweeps off. John pinches the bridge of his nose. 

"Dear God, what have I done," he says. 

Greg shrugs at him. "Just so we're clear," he says, "if anyone asks, I don't know either of you."

* * *

**Sherlock's second table**

"So I guess," Charlotte says, leaning her head on one side and smiling at Sherlock, "it's a bit stressful at times, but as a whole, I really like my job."

"You hate your job," Sherlock says. "If you had any backbone you would quit and go back to studying languages, although of course in that case, you'd need to cut down on your internet shopping."

* * *

**Sherlock's fifth table**

Frida stares as Sherlock rakes his hands over his face and through his hair. 

"No no no no _no_ ," he says. "Why are you even here? You shouldn't be dating at all until you have sorted out the baggage from your latest divorce. Also, he should definitely get custody of the cat."

* * *

**Sherlock's seventh table**

"So do you have any hobbies?" Tanya asks. 

Sherlock spends five seconds staring at her nails, her bag, and her right earlobe. 

"No," he says finally, "although I am sure your poetry enjoys a limited fame in the post-grunge, neo-goth world I hesitate to call a literary genre as well as among any group of people under the age of sixteen, I would not be interested in hearing any of it, although a psychiatrist might. First, however, I would contact your physician about that piercing in your tongue. Since you had it done at an unlicensed studio you have almost certainly sustained neurological damage, and I suspect, a bacterial infection. The next time you feel like accessorising through self-maiming, I would suggest going to a professional. In answer to your question—no, I don't have any hobbies since I live through my work, although I must admit that solving cases together with my friend John Watson provides a certain amount of amusement. That's John, over there, at that table. Oh, it appears our time is up. Nice chat."

* * *

When John has his third glass of wine thrown in his face directly after introducing himself, he begins to suspect a pattern.

* * *

"I'm curious," John says. The speed dates are over, and they are now supposed to be mingling. Given that John's shirt stinks of assorted alcoholic beverages and that he's currently trying to dry out one ear, he's not in a very mingle-friendly mood. Sherlock seems perfectly happy, because he's an arse. "Did you come here with the sole intent of ruining all my chances?" Although, to be fair, Charlotte had after throwing her beer at him subsequently apologised and lent him her napkin—so that one could go either way, he reckons. 

"Of course not," Sherlock says calmly. "I came to practise my people skills."

"And how is that working out for you?" 

"Also, you don't need to worry," Sherlock continues. "I've already evaluated all the participants tonight for compatibility with you. I found two who would be suitable. That's Brian, by the bar, and over there is Trent."

John looks at the two people Sherlock has pointed out, and then back at Sherlock. "Sherlock, those are both men."

"Excellent, John, your deductive abilities grow by the day," Sherlock says in his serious voice, the one that makes John want to punch him. He adds, "I considered Elizabeth as well, but I'm afraid she wasn't attracted to you. Shame. She mentioned that she owned an encyclopaedic work on nature poisons I would have liked to borrow."

"But I mean... how did you even talk to those guys?" John asks. "This is a—you were only supposed to talk to the women!"

Sherlock shrugs. "After the alcoholic, the adulteress and the one with the problematic relationship to her mother stormed out, there were some empty chairs. I thought it would be best to maximise the number of interviews. Oh, and I've already checked. Brian is quite obviously gay and was only dragged here by his rather oblivious co-worker, and Trent is attracted to both genders. Also, he thinks you're cute."

Sherlock as a matchmaker is profoundly unsettling. John looks across the room again, and meets the eyes of the (actually rather good-looking) man Trent, who gives him a small smile. John smiles awkwardly back, then grabs Sherlock's arm and spins them both around to face the other way. 

"That's the other thing," he says, realising as he does so that it really ought to be the _first_ thing. "I'm _straight_ , Sherlock!"

Sherlock snorts at that. "Irene says that's nonsense," he says. 

For a moment, John only gapes at him. "You mean you're still in contact with Irene?" he says, and then realises. "You mean Irene is still _alive_?"

Several of those closest to them take a few steps away. Three more people leave in a huff, or possibly in search of a police officer. 

"Obviously," Sherlock says, with infuriating calm. 

" _Obviously_? Sherlock!"

* * *

"Those two friends of yours?" the organiser for the speed dating event asks Greg, as he receives the numbers of those women who would like to see him again (two, neither of which is the one called Dianne, he notes sadly). She nods over towards where John is now gesticulating wildly at Sherlock and obviously giving him a serious dressing down—all without actually raising his voice above a hiss, because John can be very British like that. 

"No," Greg lies quickly and automatically. The organiser gives him a look. 

"I saw you come in together," she says, then sighs. "Look, I just wanted to give you these, because they look like they've forgotten what they're here for."

She presses three pieces of paper into his hands. "Those who wanted to see Dr Watson again," she says. 

Greg reads the topmost name automatically (not prying, and certainly not checking to see if it's Dianne). It's "Trent". Huh. 

"Also..." The organiser is talking to him again, sorting through a few more pieces of paper. "There were several numbers for that—the other one."

The organiser and Greg turn as one towards John and Sherlock, then back. 

"Do you think maybe you could burn them?" Greg asks.

"Good idea," she says.


End file.
